


Once More, With Feeling

by cherryvanilla



Series: Broadway Damage [5]
Category: Actor RPF, Broadway RPF
Genre: M/M, New York City, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“And when the music starts we open up our hearts.”</i>.  Or, three weeks in NYC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More, With Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> The final story in the Broadway Damage series. Picks up hours after the end of Intermission. Chronologically, the two last scenes in this series occur at the beginning and end of Fever Pitch, respectively. Thank you so much for reading!

He calls you around noon. “I was thinking you could come over tonight; my turn to order in.”

You tell him you’d love to and plan for 7pm. He gives you the address.

You show up showered and freshly shaved in another fitted shirt and jeans, since the ensemble such a profound affect last night.

He opens the door and he looks perfectly put together and gorgeous in his jeans and another wife beater, as if he knows exactly what that damn look does to you.

“Hi,” you smile and hold up your hand. “I brought wine.”

“Thanks,” he says and closes the door behind you. Then he’s backing you up against the door and kissing you like he’s been dying without it. Your fingers grip the bottle tightly and your other hand comes around to splay on the center of his back.

He bites at your bottom lip and thrusts his tongue between your lips, tangling with your own. You sigh into the kiss and your hips thrust forward on their own accord.

“Zach,” you pant against his lips, your hand trailing lower.

You can feel his grin when he starts kissing your cheek and over your jaw. “Anticipation,” he says and steps away.

Your head falls back against the door and your mouth hangs open. “You’re an evil human being,” you decide. “I’ve been half-hard all day.”

He just grins wider but you don’t miss the flicker of heat in his stare. “Come on, food and then..” but his words die when you grab him by the forearm and fling him around so it’s his body against the door. His lips are parted and he’s looking at you with a mixture of shock and lust.

You press your body to his, hard, and claim his lips in a deep kiss, your tongue licking into his mouth while your hand thumbs over one of his nipples. The kiss is frantic, bruising, and dirty. When you pull back his cheeks are pink and he’s panting.

“Payback’s a bitch,” you say, trying to steady your voice.

He’s staring at you in wonder. “Fuck, Jon,” he breathes, voice barely audible.

“Anticipation,” you remind him. He shakes his head and laughs.

“Food,” he says firmly, taking the bottle from your hand and motioning you to follow. You take in your surroundings while he puts the bottle of white in the fridge. His place is twice as big as yours; the kitchen is large and pristine and the living room is cream colored and looks like something out of a model home.

He grabs a menu from the island. “Thai okay?”

“Perfect,” you nod, still looking around.

He must catch you because he says. “It’s.. kind of barren, I know. I didn’t think I’d be staying for all that long but now with Angels I figure I’ll just keep on here and make it… homier.”

“It’s nice,” you say but yeah, it could use more colors, more personality. You suddenly long to see what a place he inhabits really looks like. You picture something vibrant and lively.

He lays the menu out on the island and you both pursue it.

He orders the food; Pad Thai for him, Green Curry for you.

“It’ll be about 40 minutes,” he says,” arching his back a little and bouncing on toes. He makes your mouth water. He leads you into the living room where you take in the black leather couch, the flat screen TV.

“Do you want to play Beatles Rock Band while we wait?”

“Absolutely,” you laugh, because honestly there’s only one thing you’d want to do more.

He grins and grabs the guitar and the microphone and boots up the console.

“Alright,” he says, thrusting the mic at you. ‘You’re obviously singing.”

You take it from his hand, the sides of your fingers brushing.

“Naturally,” you say with flourish.

“And I’m putting you on expert, Broadway,” he says while he presses through the start screen.

“Now that’s a low blow when I just sang two sets 24 hours ago.”

He rolls his eyes and flips through to song mode. “And you also used to sing every night while actually _on_ Broadway. I remain unmoved by your protest.”

“Fucking evil,” you say again.

He bumps into you playfully and lets you choose the first song. You start bold with Helter Skelter and then call bullshit when he opts for medium expertise.

He holds up a hand in defense. “Hey, I made no claims of being a professional guitar player.”

“Just for this I’m going to fail the song on purpose,” you promise.

“You’re too much of a perfectionist for that, Jon.” He grins toothily and you can’t help yourself; you lean over and kiss him quickly. He’s still smiling when you pull away.

“Let’s go,” he says.

By the time Helter Skelter is over your voice already feels rough around the edges. You get a 98%.

“I’m impressed,” he says. You grin at him but then notice his expression turn slightly serious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “Just.. you have a wonderful voice. I don’t think I’ve said that.”

You feel face heat up. You’re used to fans fawning over the way you sing and it never affects you like this. “Shut up,” you mumble.

“No, seriously,” he says while flipping through for another song. “I really meant what I said about Spring Awakening, that wasn’t some line. I think I mentioned it in an interview for Christ sake! It’s kind of surreal that now I’m here, kissing you and shit.”

Now you really are blushing. “Yeah, well, now that I think about it, I mentioned in an interview how much I loved the Star Trek reboot so -- we’re equal on the surrealism.”

There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips when you turn to look at him. “What do I want to hear you sing.. hmm..” he says, almost to himself. He chooses While My Guitar Gently Weeps. You get 100% and barely have a moment to raise your arms in victory when he’s turning your face to his and kissing you like you’re a prize he just won. He licks deep into your mouth, fitting your lips flush together, his fingernails clawing at your forearm. When he inches back, you’re dazed.

“I really love your fucking voice,” he says, voice low and rough. You’d drop to your knees right here if you didn’t think the delivery guy would interrupt you.

Instead, you clear your throat. “Uh, my turn.” You browse through the songs absently, your brain tied up in the kiss. You pick I’m Looking Through You and force him to play it on at least hard.

You both do well. Afterwards, he asks if you want some wine and you take a seat on the couch while he gets it. He laments that I’ve Just Seen a Face isn’t in the game and you mention how you loved that scene in _Across the Universe_. He says he did as well but ultimately had problems with the film in terms of how it created a world in which The Beatles essentially didn’t exist yet their music did. The whole thing rang false to him. You admit to shallowly loving its look and musical numbers and perhaps didn’t pay as much attention to the socio-political context.

You discuss it in depth and just as you’re about to start another song his buzzer sounds.

He grabs a throw and places it on the plush carpet. You eat on the floor in the living room while his i-deck plays The National’s latest album. It’s kind of perfect, your mind supplies.

“I saw them recently at the BAM. Incredible,” he says.

“Nice,” you reply, letting the lyrics wash over you. London is being sung about. You try to push the thoughts away when a few weeks ago the mere notion would’ve had you giddy.

If he notices anything he thankfully remains silent. He starts talking about his favorite bands, the concerts he’s seen recently and then you’re off and running about music – everything from classic rock to soundtracks. He tops off another glass of wine for you and sets the now near empty bottle down on the coffee table. Your body feels loose and relaxed and he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted when bathed in only soft overhead lights and set against hypnotic lyrics.

One song ends and another begins. You’ve both finished your meals and he moves the plates that are between you off to the side. He falls down on his side, propped up by his elbow and suddenly right next to you. “This is my favorite song on the album,” he murmurs. The guitar is soft, the melody gorgeously romantic.

His hand brushes over yours and suddenly you’re staring at him, eyes catching as though this is the first time – before a kiss, a touch, anything.

 _I won’t be your runaway, cause I won’t run_ are the words being sung as he leans in so fucking slowly and kisses you like you could break. There are no frantic movements this time, no tugging bodies closer to feel the way you fit together. The only places he touches you are the back of your hand and your lips. He slots his mouth against yours and kisses you like he’s trying to memorize every curve. You sigh against his mouth and let him in.

Its a few minutes before you’re moaning softly, and then he’s easing you down onto the blanket, holding body off to the side, still not covering your own. He kisses his way down your neck, pausing to lick at the hollow of your throat. You brace your hands on his shoulders, not pulling or pushing, just resting. You toss your head to one side in a silent request; he latches on and sucks gently. You begin to run your hands up and down his arms. He makes a small sound against your neck and suddenly you notice the song has ended and there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing in the room.

He’s licks a slow line up your neck and presses his lips to your jaw. “Do you wanna go to the bedroom?” His voice is thick and ragged.

“Yes,” you breathe. He stands and you get a good view of the bulge in his jeans. He holds out a hand to you, pulling you up and into another kiss. He walks you backwards to the bedroom, stripping off your shirt as you go and throwing it on the floor.

You tumble onto the bed, him biting at your neck, his hands running down your flank and up and over your thighs. You arch your neck backward, allowing him easier access. He sucks at the juncture of your shoulder and then licks his way to your nipple as your erections brush together through the denim. You moan, feeling your nipple harden under his tongue; he rolls the right one between his fingers. You push at his shoulders enough to rid him of his shirt. You toss it aside and he crushes you into the mattress, chest to chest. You lock your arms around his upper back and your fingers trace their way lower, his skin hot to the touch. His hands tug at your fly, inching down the zipper and deftly popping the button. He raises his hips and you shimmy out of your jeans with his help. He sits back on his hunches, hands going to his own zipper. You stare at him; lashes lowered, and lick your lips while you stroke his erection through the fabric. He sighs and starts sliding them down, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He climbs off the bed and slides down his pants. You take the opportunity to kick off your jeans which were bunched around your knees and deftly remove your boxers. His gaze immediately shifts to your cock and he groans when you take yourself in hand.

“Get over here,” you say, your voice scratchy and thick with want. He shucks off his boxers and climbs on top of you. His cock, thick and flushed, slides against your own. You touch him everywhere, anywhere, you can reach. You lose yourself in the feel of the rough hair on his legs as they brush against yours, the feel of his chest scratching against your own. You press your hand to the small of his back and rock up against him. You’re both breathing heavy and he steals your lips in another hot kiss. Your mouths slide together, open and desperate, sharing breath. His hand shifts down your stomach and he wraps his fingers around both of our cocks. You gasp into his mouth and your thighs tremble, your body throbbing with need. He presses kisses against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, over and over.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, breathing hotly against your skin. “Do you do that?”

“Yeah,” you groan, your fingers flexing against the curve of his thigh.

“Me too, sometimes, but I mainly top,” he says, voice like silk as he licks a wet line up your jaw line, pausing to pull on your earlobe.

“Works for me,” you gasp out, fingers digging into his skin. His hand has started to grip you tighter, pump you faster. The feel of his cock against yours is hot and heady and you want it inside you yesterday.

He releases you and reaches into the bedside table. You stroke his cock lazily, your head falling back against the pillows, your heart pounding in anticipation. He drops the condoms and lube on the bed and kisses you roughly. He pulls back to swipe his tongue between your lips and whispers, “Turn over.”

The second you do his mouth is on the back of your neck, teeth scraping and tongue soothing at your skin. His bottom lip drags down your spine and you shiver. You feel him shifting between you, your head in your hands and your ass in the air, and you bite your lip in anticipation; you don’t have to wait long. The first feel of his tongue causes your hips to jerk forward: it’s been so damn long. He moans softly, his fingertips squeezing the cheeks of your ass while his mouth presses against your hole. He licks in teasing flickers and you push backward, needing more. His grip tightens on you and then you feel his tongue, broad and pointed, ease past the ring of muscle.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp out, rubbing your forehead against your folded arms. You swear you can feel him grin. He fucks you hard and fast, darting in and out at lightening speed until you’re a quivering wreck. He pulls back to flick at your hole, just a bare whisper of a touch. Then you hear a cap open and a second later there’s a finger sliding in, ever so slowly, while his tongue brushes over you again and again. He works you open slowly and even brings his mouth back to slide his tongue in alongside his finger.

“Zach,” you breathe, and then can’t say anything else. Your cock is rock hard and dripping pre-cum into the mattress. He starts to stroke it in time with his mouth and hand, adding a second finger. It’s a little uncomfortable but mostly incredible and you’re a broken pleading mess by the time he has three fingers inside, fucking you slowly while the tip of his tongue now traces it’s way up your back.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“You,” you gasp out immediately. Your hair is damp and curling in front of your eyes. Your hands are fisted in the bed sheets. You need him right now.

“What do you want from me?” he prods, his mouth like fire on the back of your neck.

“Fuck me,” you groan, pushing back on his fingers.

“Christ,” he breathes and curves his fingers. You jerk in his arms when his fingers brush your prostate.

You mourn the loss of his fingers but only momentarily; you know what will soon replace them. You rise up on your hands and knees and listen to the tear of the condom wrapper. Then his arm is wrapped around your waist and he’s settled with his legs on either side of yours. He kisses behind your ear, his chest flush against your back. You feel him guide himself into you, so slowly. Your head falls back against his shoulder and he suckles at your skin.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, like it’s the best gift he could receive.

“Been a little while,” you admit, gasping when he sinks deeper.

“You good?” he asks, still kissing every inch of skin he can.

“Yeah.” Then he’s all the way in, balls flush against your ass and you reach back to hold him still. “Gimme a second.”

He rubs his hands over your stomach and doesn’t move. You feel your body adjust to him, and breathe out.

“Okay,” you nod. He bites the back of your neck and lowers his hand to your cock. You groan and thrust into his hand while he begins to rock into you.

He pulls back a little, and then surges forward. You cry out, your dick leaping in his hand.

“You like that?” he asks, breathlessly, dirtily.

“Yes,” you moan, “god, yes, fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ, _Jon_ ,” he grunts, and starts fucking you harder, his cock sliding half way then slamming back in again and again. He pulls you upward so your back is straight. The angle is perfect, the head of his cock brushing against your prostate over and over again. “Jonathan,” he says softly, barely any voice behind the words. You blindly reach for his hand which is resting on your hip and slide your fingers between his.

He pulls all the way out, and then drives back, his hips moving in tiny circles when he’s as deep as he can go. “Fuck, you feel good,” he sighs, his cheek hot against your own.

“You too,” you whisper, reaching back to pull his hips in even closer.

“This good?” he asks, breathing harshly against your ear.

“Harder,” you practically beg, a loud moan falling from your lips when he pushes your body down into the mattress and starts fucking you into it, his hand a heavy pressure on the back of your neck. “Oh god, like that. Don’t stop,” you ramble on, unsure of what you’re even saying anymore.

He’s babbling too, words you can barely make out. His fingers are like a vice on your hip and neck and he rides your ass until you come without a hand on your cock, your body tensing and trembling against the mattress. You clench around his dick and hear him shout your name, feel his hips jerk and his body shake as he comes.

He pulls out slowly and you both groan. You have no idea what happens with the condom because he flops beside you empty handed before reaching over to hand you some tissues.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps. He rolls onto his back while you will your own body to move out of the damn wet spot. “Well. We know we’re good at that, then,” he says and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You wipe blindly at the sheets and your stomach and attempt to regain your breath. “Fucking right, we are,” you laugh, shakily, lying down on your back. You look over at him and then you both start laughing, infectious, and can’t stop. He hooks his index finger under your chin. “C’mere,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss. You ‘mmm’ into it; it’s a lazily, unhurried slide of lips and tongue.

Upon pulling away he bumps his shoulder into yours and rests his hand on your stomach, stroking slowly. You cover your hand with his and shift over, resting your head on his shoulder blade.

“You can stay if you want to,” he says, stifling a yawn and reaching for a pack of cigarettes; he really wasn’t kidding about the post-coital smoking. You wave off his offer of one this time; at this rate your voice will go to shit sooner rather than later.

“Sure you won’t have paparazzi hanging around outside?” you say, trying to play down the moment.

“Nah. They don’t actively seek me out, they just happen to catch me. A few times with Jesse, so, you know, I’m apparently with him.”

“Jesse?” you ask.

“Jesse Tyler Ferguson,” he clarifies.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve met him. And his… boyfriend, I believe?”

He takes a drag and exhales slowly. His fingers are tracing patterns along your hipbone. “Yeah, he’s in a relationship. We’ve been friends for a while. We did have a fling a while back, but it wasn’t anything serious. I haven’t really… had many serious relationships.”

Your mind lingers around that statement for far longer than it should. After you’re not sure how long, he nudges you. “How about you? Too soon for ex-stories?”

You run your fingers through your hair, pushing it off your forehead. Your lips are against his skin and you rub them against his collarbone before answering. “Last serious relationship was this singer – Gavin. Other than that it’s just been a handful of random dates.”

He shifts a little, so he’s facing you instead. His fingers are still moving over your hip and you stroke absently at his chest. He’s quiet for a few moments.

“You don’t really seem like the random type,” he says, finally.

Your stomach flips nervously. “And what type do I seem like?” you say, hoping you don’t sound defensive.

He seems to consider this. Then he trails a finger down your cheek slowly and smiles a little. “I think I’m still trying to figure that out,” he says, and drags you forward by your waist, pulling you in for a slow, deep kiss.

When he releases your mouth, you’re suddenly breathless again. He rests his forehead against yours. “When do you leave for London?”

Your heart is racing. “July 9th”

He shifts back to look you in the eye. “I want to see you as much as I can before that.” It’s his intent, focused look you’ve already come to know well.

You want it too, even though he’s basically said he doesn’t do serious and you’ll be getting onto a plane with a heavy heart. You honestly don’t care anymore; this is the most fun you’ve had in a long time. And to be honest, you’re feeling pretty damn happy.

So you throw caution to the wind, once and for all, and respond, “Yes.”

He smiles lazily, kissing you again.

“I’m doing mostly night shoots but we’ll figure something out. Sleep is overrated anyway. Speaking of which,” he adds pointedly, “you’ll stay over then? Don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t answer,” he grins and slaps your ass lightly. It makes you aware of the vague soreness you feel but it also turns you on a little. Christ, you feel like a teenager with him.

“Yes to that, too,” you smile.

You sleep in a pair of his boxers, which are a bit snug, and wake up to his ridiculous bed head and his hand wrapped around your dick. You have pancakes and then make out on the couch unhurriedly before he accompanies you back to your apartment so you can change before spending the day together.  
_______________________

From there on out it feels like you’re trying to cram in six months of contact in two weeks because, well, you are. He takes you to an early lunch at 44 x 10 (which you’d never mentioned aloud so that was rather cool). Tuesday you go to the Met and for a walk in the Park. On Wednesday you catch a matinee of Promises, Promises and an early dinner before his night shoot. The next day he says he absolutely must catch up on sleep before filming and so you just meet him on location and go for coffee. You hang around for a little bit and then head home, your lips still tingling in surprise from when he kissed you goodbye.

Friday you spend running lines with Lea when he texts, inviting you out to eat before his shoot. You mention you have company and he tells you to bring her along. Their meeting goes off without a hitch and you’re ridiculously relieved. After parting ways, she pulls you close and whispers, “I like this one.”

You haven’t stopped grinning since he walked away. “Yeah. Me too.”

She forces you to reveal all the dirt and you concede; it’s kind of nice to talk about him, actually.

Sunday is Pride and you plan on going. You find yourself nervous mentioning it to him; if he says he doesn’t want to go it’s going to seriously turn you off. He has off Saturday and Sunday. Saturday night you’re lying in your bed while he kisses his way up your chest, your brain still attempting cognitive function after the world class blowjob he just gave. Nevertheless, you find yourself combing your fingers through his hair and asking what he’s doing tomorrow.

“Mm.. no plans,” he says responds.

“Did you want to go to Pride?” you ask in a rush. You’re sure he can hear your heartbeat against his lips. He sucks what will undoubtedly be a mark, against your collarbone. “Yes,” he says, simply.

Your breath catches and you look down at him; he’s still licking lazily at your skin.

“Seriously?”

He stops at that and meets your gaze. “Did you think I wouldn’t want to?” His forehead is creased, those intimidating eyebrows drawn together.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure,” you admit.

He runs a hand up your arm. “What I do on my own time is my business. I can’t be showing up at industry events with someone on my arm yet but if I want to walk in Pride, alongside thousands of people, with the guy I’m dating I will.”

Your mind gets stuck on the _guy I’m dating_ part. Your heart trips in your chest and you know you must have a stupid grin on your face. You can’t think of a response so you just pull him up to you, kiss him deeply and then roll him over until he’s beneath you and gasping up into your mouth. You slide down his body and suck him hard, showing him with your lips and tongue how fucking happy he just made you.

Pride is exhilarating and fantastic and you love that he’s by your side. You stay late into the evening and when you ride him that night, his hands firm on your hips, it feels like liberation. On Monday you catch a showing of Exit Through the Gift Shop and you both love it.

_______________________

The next two weeks pass in a haze. He’s busy with night shoots for the majority but tries to make as much time for you as possible. You’re beginning to feel nervous, partly because of the play and partly because you’re leaving him and the uncertainty of what happens next is overwhelming.

It’s a Monday night the week you have to leave. You take him to Brooklyn after his shoot. You sit in front of the Museum, the fountains still on, and eat ice cream. He touches the back of your hand casually and it makes your pulse races. Down the block you go to The Way Station and have some drinks. You talk about the BAM and all the things coming in the upcoming season. He wants to go to everything; you try not to think about not having that option. You walk the streets for a while, his shoulder brushing against yours again and again. On the subway back, you sit close. You wind up at his apartment, stumbling through the door as you kiss. He pins you against the hallway wall and grinds his hips into yours. You rut together frantically until you break from his grip and turn so his back is against the wall. He gasps into your mouth and claws at your leather jacket. He has minor stubble today and it feels wonderful grazing your cheek. His leg hooks around your calf and his hand drops to your ass, pulling you in closer.

“Want you,” he breathes when you break away to drag your teeth down your neck.

“You’ve got me” you mumble into his skin, softer than you intended. Upon pushing him into the bedroom you can no longer deny you’re fucking gone for him. You bite your lip hard when he fucks you less any unfortunate words spill out.

____________________________________

In the month you’ve actually known him you learn more than any superficial interview would provide. He tells you about his annoyance at reporters, interviews and the overall idea that someone would even care about him when there are more important things to talk about. He talks about his dedication to his craft and his interest in production and comics. He says if he had his way he’d never partake in any type of publicity or press. He talks to you about _Heroes_ and how he really did start resenting it after a while. When he talks, it’s not pretentious, just honest with a sense of frustration beneath it all. Out in public he doesn’t smile as much but whenever he looks at you or whenever you’re saying something the corner of his mouth is always upturned. You love his smile but even more so you love making him laugh.

All told, it’s probably the best month you’ve had in a long time and in a few days it will all be over and you’ll embark on something you’ve dreamed of for years. It’s incredibly bittersweet but you’re used to life doing this by now.

 

___________________

Given his schedule you can’t get in as many Broadway plays as you wanted.

“Next time,” he says on Tuesday night while you’re grabbing a coffee at the Starbucks near his shoot.

You bite your lip and merely nod; it’s the first time either of you have brought up life after Saturday. He tells you he hung out with Jesse earlier in the day and you guys should actually meet but to be honest he wants you to himself right now. You grin into your cup.

After you’ve left him to filming you head home and flop down on your mattress. Your room is a mess from the packing you’ve started and yet to finish. You flip on some Elaine Paige and close your eyes. It’s impossible to deny it any longer: you love him. You’ve fallen in love in a god damn month and now you’re going to be on another continent for half a year.

You’re drifting into sleep when your phone buzzes on the night stand.

 _its raining. i’m cranky. would rather be seeing you._

You smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Before you can respond it buzzes again.

 _and now we’re shooting tomorrow night too. im sorry. can i pick you up after?_

You’re somewhat disappointed but you understand. You also wonder where he wants to go after 1 a.m. when you could be spending that time in bed together, but you don’t say anything.

 _It’s okay. Lea has concert tickets anyway and was begging me to go. And of course you can._

You hit send and then pause, your fingers on the keys.

 _I’d rather be seeing you, too_ , you add and close the keyboard quickly as if not looking at it won’t make it real. You let out a slow breath.

You think about him the entire next day. You’re distracted at the concert and Lea teases you mercilessly. You also realize this will be the last time you see her for a while as she’s heading back to L.A. and you feel terrible for being pre-occupied. You say as much but she waves you off. You say goodbye and promise to call and text like crazy. At home you shower and change, throwing on a flannel shirt and jeans. You let your hair hang lose, gauging that’s how he likes it best if the way he tugs on it during sex is any indication. The mere thought of him in bed makes your dick twitch.

He shows up at nearly 2 a.m. and makes out with you up against the kitchen counter before forcing himself away and taking your hand. “Let’s go, Broadway. This isn’t the exact plan.”

You groan but follow. He says you’re walking because it isn’t far from your apartment. He’s leading you down St. Mark’s place and you’re trying to deduce where you could be going when you spot the sign right in front of you: Cheep’s Pita Creations.

You stop mid-step. You can’t believe he remembered.

He turns to you when he sees you’ve stopped and walks forward. “This really cute guy I met told me this locale was more your speed.”

You smile so hard your face hurts.

“You can pretend this is our first date, if you want,” he smiles back, ruefully.

You feel something tighten at that, sharp and perfect. “I loved our first date,” you admit quietly.

You notice his eyes go soft for a brief moment and then he’s smirking. “Yeah, that bathroom _was_ rather scenic.”

You shove him lightly, your heart hammering in your chest, and walk inside.

You both order the $2 dollar falafels, a hummus appetizer to split, and grape leaves.

You talk about the impending wrap of his shoot and your play preparation: just little things for a while. At one point he says, “I got a call from my publicist today because I was seen with Jesse on the street and apparently spotted with you a few places and now the rumor mill has started again,” he shakes his head but he doesn’t seem annoyed, just resigned.

You’re not sure how to respond, your mind racing. “Oh. Uh. Maybe we shouldn’t have been going out as much, then.” Your heart isn’t in the words; you’re not even sure where they’re coming from or why you’re saying them.

He looks at you, his eyes suddenly hard. “I’m only going to say this once more: I don’t care. Especially if the person is worth it.”

“Yeah?” you ask, breathlessly.

He stares at you, the hard glint in his eyes dissipating. “Yeah, Broadway.”

“Not Broadway much longer,” you say. You shouldn’t sound so sad about that.

His mouth turns down for a second. “Yeah, so, speaking of that… I’m not expecting anything. From you, I mean.”

You stomach drops but you try to play it casual. “Oh, yeah. Right. Same,” you agree, nodding far too much.

“I mean, it’s only been a month, right?” he says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself.

“No, yeah,” you reply, on automatic now.

His face is pensive and he’s chewing on his bottom lip. “It’d be rather selfish of me to say I want you to be my boyfriend.”

Your breath catches in your throat. This time it really does feel like now or never. “If it is, then call me selfish too.”

The smile he gives you in return is worth it. “At the same time,” he says, slowly, “I don’t expect you to abstain from pretty British boys.” Something darkens in his eyes.

The thought makes you feel strange, even though it’s rational. You open your mouth to say something, unsure what exactly, when he waves you off.

“Let’s just play it by ear, huh? Six months is a long time. This probably won’t be something you want when you get back.”

“It will,” you say confidently, even though you meant only to think it.

He looks at you, softly. “Yeah, well. I think it will for me too...” he says like the thought is foreign to him and you suddenly realize it is. Your chest tightens at the thought of him going against his normal relationship stance for you.

“If this works, I think I’m going to want you to myself when you’re back in the states,” he continues lowly, his eyes dark and intense.

You lick your lips. “I want that too.”

The heat in his eyes is palpable. You have no idea if he’s going to be picking up boys in bars and clubs while you’re gone and to be honest, you hardly care. Right now, the concept that he wants to be with you, in spite of the inconvenience and the short time period in which you’ve known him, speaks more than any imagined hook-ups could take away.

You feel like you ought to give him something back. “I have a confession,” you say, contrite.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Oookay.”

You laugh. “It’s nothing bad. Just.. embarrassing.”

His face relaxes and waits, expectantly.

“I follow you on twitter.”

He blinks and then barks out a laugh. “Um, so do a lot of people, Jon. I didn’t realize you had an account.”

You blush and dramatically hide your face in your hands, speaking through your fingers. “I don’t. I made one up.”

You hear him laughing more and you pull your hands away, smiling crookedly. “Shut up, asshole,” you say, without heat.

“You’re such a stalker,” he teases, pointing at you.

You throw a piece of pita at him. “Oh my god, seriously shut up.”

His laughter finally dissipates. “I’m not a very exciting tweeter,” he admits.

You shrug to yourself. He talks in code on his twitter. Half the time you have no idea what he’s referring to. All you know is his last tweet before midnight tonight mentioned “3 days to go” and that’s when you leave. It warms your heart that he’s thinking about it too.

“You’re… real,” you say. You feel his foot brush against yours. You take a drink of water and grin secretively.

He’s silent for a moment then, “Jesse says I’m a cradle robber, by the way.”

“You totally are, old man,” you respond, not shielding your grin this time.

He looks at you through a veil of eyelashes. “Say that again in a few hours.” His words are a promise and heat surges through your body. You realize, sudden and acute, just how much your body is going to miss sleeping with him. You press your leg firmly to his.

In spite of the thought, this may be your favorite of all your dates so far.  
_____________________

You wake up the next morning with him wrapped around you. You smile sleepily and just lay there, taking in the feel of his body, the strength of his arms around your waist. After a little while you untangle yourself, careful not to wake him. You start to pack up more stuff in your living room. When it’s nearly 11:30 a.m. you can no longer wait and slowly move into the bedroom, packing up everything else you can and trying to be as quiet as possible. You hear him groan and you look up. H’s stretching and his hair is an utter mess: he looks adorable. You bite your lip before telling him as much.

“Mmm.. what time is it?”

“Like 11:30.”

He bolts up at that. “Fuck, why’d you let me sleep?”

You furrow your brow. “You shoot tonight.”

He smiles at you brightly, his eyes dancing with mischief. “No, I don’t. We have the whole day.”

You launch yourself at him. He makes an “oof” sound and his arms lock around your body. You kiss him everywhere and he laughs into your mouth. “You approve then?”

“Fuck yes,” you say and kiss him again, totally ignoring morning breath and just taking all of him in.

You make out until it turns frantic. He guides your head down and you gratefully go, wanting to feel him spill into your mouth, wanting to remember the taste for the next six months.

When you finally drag yourselves out of bed you catch Stonewall at the IFC Center, which leads to discussions on gay rights, politics, and the Trevor Project.

Afterwards, you eat at Two Boots. He orders two slices of Mr. Pink, and you get the Earth Mother. Then you trek up to Forbidden Planet where he buys the latest _X-Men_ and _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.

You’re nearly halfway between his place and yours. He asks if you want to spend the night. “Yeah, I’ll just have to leave early,” you say, chewing on your lip. You don’t want to think about it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you to the plane on time,” he smirks.

“Now I have _My Fair Lady_ in my head, asshole,” you complain, nudging him while you walk.

He laughs loudly. “The fact that you made the inference is what I love about you.”

Your stomach flutters. _I love everything about you_ , you think.

He touches a hand to the small of your back briefly and you start counting the blocks until his place.

____________________

It’s a repeat of many previous nights: kissing your way through his apartment; detouring against doors, walls, and even up against his dresser except this time there’s a sense of increased desperation and finality that you’re both fighting against.

You have him on his back, his shirt off and his jeans undone. His legs are wrapped around your waist as you fist his cock roughly, the denim of his jeans chaffing against the back of your hand with each stroke. His hips push up insistently. You’ve been kissing him, holding him in place with a hand to his jaw. When he breaks away from your grasp, he’s groaning, his hands clawing at your back. “I want you to fuck me,” he gasps, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth. “Do you want that?”

“Yes,” you mumble, your pulse surging. “Yes,” you repeat, kissing his cheek, forehead, and eyelids.

 _He wants to feel you after you’re gone_ , your mind supplies. You shove the thought aside.

You haven’t done this in a couple of years and frankly, you’re surprised at how much the thought of it is exciting you. He spreads his legs and his knees. You press a kiss to his calf, his kneecap, the inside of his thigh, and reach over to grab the supplies. When they’re in your hand he catches your wrist and pulls you in, dragging his lips against your mouth slowly. “I want it like this,” he says, words barely formed against you; the gentle pressure of his mouth is intoxicating. You inhale and nod, jerkily.

You coat the lube on your fingers and run the tips along his hole, circling in a teasing motion, not pushing in. He groans and tugs at your other arm. You lean over, settled between his legs, and press your mouth to his parted lips again and again until he’s pushing upward, trying to draw you inside.

You slide one finger in halfway, feeling him clench around you instinctively and then relax.

“How long?” you mumble, worrying your way down his throat, all teeth and tongue.

‘A while,” he admits. You again try not to think about the reasons behind this night and fuck him slowly with one finger for long minutes while sucking bruises against his throat and neck. He moans, arching his body again and again, like he’s drunk on your hands and mouth. When you finally slide another finger in he’s swearing softly and breathing your name. You’ve kissed his lips raw and you’re hitting his prostate with each upstroke by the time he says, “Three. Do it.” You do. His cock is heavy between your bodies and you brush against it with ach surge forward as you kiss him, your fingers curling as deep as they can go.

“Jesus, now,” he gasps when you’ve kissed him breathless once again, fucking him with your tongue the way you’re fucking him with your fingers.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” you murmur against the underside of his jaw. You have no idea if it’s true but fuck; you’re going to give it all your all.

His hands tighten on your forearms.

“You already are,” he says, so soft you think you’ve imagined it.

You feel your face heat up and sit back to roll on the condom. You brush your hands up his thighs, and then settle between them. You hook your arms under his knees and lift his legs to your hips.

His legs immediately lock around you, heels pushing against your ass until you fall forward. You bite your way into his mouth and grip his cock by the base. His hand is suddenly cradling the back of your head, tugging lightly on your hair until you’re staring into his eyes, your faces a breath apart.

“Fuck me, Jon.” His voice is raw and desperate.

“Zach,” you start, swallowing around the words before cutting yourself off. His heels glide upward, pressing against the small of your back. You slowly push into him, feeling the muscles yield. He’s tight, hot, and the most perfect thing you’ve ever had. His legs hitch higher and you sink in deeper. You watch his face: the dark flush you make out from the soft low of the streetlights, the sweat pooling at his hairline, the way his eyes grow even darker the deeper you slide.

You groan when you’re finally in to the hilt and bury your face in his neck. His hands run fervently over your back, strong and sure. You rotate your hips in small circles, barely moving.

“Jon,” he gasps, clawing at your back now. You fuck him like that, as deep inside as you can go, until his whines increase and his nails dig into your skin.

“Okay,” you pant to no one in particular and pull halfway out before slamming back in. His response is incredible. You could get drunk on his sounds, the way his hips rise to meet each of your thrusts, the way he pulls you in with his legs upon every upstroke.

You find a long, hard rhythm and kiss him throughout it. His cock is dragging against your belly, spreading pre-cum on your skin, and he’s releasing these small, desperate sounds that you want to lock away in your memory for all-time. His fingers run through your hair repeatedly. You kiss the corner of his mouth and his stubbled cheeks which have since left your face red and raw. Your hips start to stutter, pressure building in the base of your spine, and you know you’re going to come. Your head falls against his shoulder; you press your face to his neck, kissing the sweat-slicked skin again and again while your hand works his cock.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Come, baby.”

Your balls tighten at the words and your breath feels punched out of you. You jerk him harder, slamming into him over and over and come with a choked-off gasp. You feel him clench around you like a vice and then his cock is jerking in your hand and he’s spilling onto his stomach.

“Fuck,” he’s saying, “Oh fuck,” and you can’t even agree, can’t even move. Your stomach is fluttering, your thighs are trembling, and your face is wet. You’ve never wanted someone so much after you just had them.

He pulls you down to his chest. You can feel his cum against your skin but you hardly care. He’s trailing his hands up and down the damp skin of your back and over the span of your shoulders, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. You pull out of him gently, tie off the condom and toss it in the garbage. He’s reaching for you immediately when you return. He pulls you against him, spooning and hooking his head over your shoulder.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”

You sigh contently and lace your fingers together. He kisses your temple, his breath uneven and fanning against your ear.

You slide into sleep feeling sated and deliriously happy. Distance and time be damned, you actually think this may work.

[end]


End file.
